


You're On Your Own (But That's Okay)

by orphan_account



Series: Daffodil Days [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alexandria Virginia, Bucky Barnes-centric, Canon Compliant, Gen, He's finding himself, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Recovery, Sort of? - Freeform, Washington D.C., bye have fun, i don't know how to write tags holy fuck, idk - Freeform, not yet, up in the D-M-V Y'ALL, we might spot a wild sam wilson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:52:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7024408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier makes a slow, winding journey to Bucharest, with the intent of rediscovering Bucky Barnes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! This is going to be my first multi-chapter fic, so we'll see how this goes! Primarily Bucky-centric; we won't be seeing much of Steve in this one, but I'm making this a series, so be ready for future fics!
> 
> Title from "Daffodil Days" by Oscar.

****As far as rivers go, the Potomac isn't bad, but the visibility is less than ideal.

Your long hair is flowing in soft, loose knots in front of your face, changing directions seconds after you do and getting in front of your eyes; you make half-hearted attempts to get it out of the way with your hand as your paddle, sweeping away the currents with your metal arm. The water is murky brown and deep blue, sunlight fighting to filter in from the sky and interspersing with the clouds of mud your feet kick up. The dirt glints like dust motes in a sunbeam in the late afternoon. A plastic trash bag, slimy and limp, floats past you in the water, minding it's own business. 

You'd think a red-white-and-blue wearing supersoldier, icon of the 20th century, symbol of freedom and victory, would be easier to find. But _no._ You've been searching for fifteen minutes, and you still can't find him. _Captain America, Steve Rogers. Mission. Target. Friend? Important._ You don't know what he is to you, or what you are to him; you can't comprehend why he dropped the shield and was ready to let you finish him off, and you're not entirely sure why you didn't. You're not even sure he's still breathing, at this point. 

You don't care. You have to find him. You have to _save him._  

He's resting in the mud some twenty feet from the shore, the shield lying flat beside him. He looks so _peaceful,_ and for some reason, this terrifies you, to think that he has accepted death. You are quick to pull him to shore, to check for a pulse, force the water out of his lungs with a well-placed jab of your fingers. You breathe a sigh of relief when he starts to breathe again, resisting the urge to comb your fingers through his honey-blonde hair.  

You stand up, preparing to leave, and then remember that you didn't retrieve the shield. 

It's easier to find this time, and surprisingly light to carry; the water rolls off the surface like it's something ethereal, something above the level of a common weapon. It's a symbol, a beacon. You brush a bit of mud off of the gleaming silver star in the center. 

Steve Rogers is unconscious but breathing. They'll find him soon enough. They'll call it a miracle. 

You'll know the truth. 

You leave the shield lying by his side on the muddy riverbank, but take with you an inkling of the independence it represents. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

You manage to find an old Hydra safe house with a change of clothes and a rec center with public showers. With all of the chaos this afternoon, the building is empty save for the forty-something man at the front desk focused intently on the news feed on his computer monitor. Thankfully, he pays you and your blood-soaked uniform or gleaming metal appendage no attention. You walk towards the men's locker room with purpose and find it, thankfully, likewise deserted.  

You strip out of your mission clothes, the straps carelessly coming undone and zippers tugged down with an almost reckless abandon you have not known in many years. You toss it in the garbage and yank the shower handle up to the hottest temperature, rubbing cheap soap from the dispenser into your hair and skin, letting the spray scorch your body, turning the skin red. You relish the sensation. The standard-issue clock on the walls lets it's red hand spin the seconds out lazily. You lose track of how long you stand there, eyes closed, feet flat on the cool tiles of the floor. The water is black and grimy for a long time, going down the drain. 

After you feel sufficiently refreshed, you sit bare on one of the benches surrounded by lockers and dig through the bag you grabbed from the safe house, one of the first-aid-emergency-evacuation kits intended for long missions. Grabbing disinfectant and a roll of gauze, you tend to the scrapes and wounds scattered over your body, marring the landscape of your flesh and skin. New scars join old ones as your metal fingers wind a bandage around your upper arm, your chest, your knee. You steal a brush from a locker and untangle your matted hair, avoiding eye contact with a reflection you're almost glad you no longer recognize. You slide into a shirt that feels luxuriously soft, pull a glove over your left hand. Tug a baseball cap over your dripping hair. 

You stare your reflection square in the eyes, and nod hello. 

Packing nicked items from various lockers into your bag, you walk out through the lobby doors into a sun-dripped Washington evening. The man at the desk is gone. The doors are unlocked.   
 

You steal an abandoned Metro Card from someone's wallet to pay your way into the station and ride the yellow line as far as it will take you. 

___________________________________________________________________________________   
 

Huntington Station is outside of Old Town Alexandria and, due to it's being somewhat of a distance from D.C., is significantly busier than any of the previous stops. You hunch your shoulders and make your way down the stairs and out of the station, dropping the Metro Card in a trash can on your way down through the parking lot. 

You walk about four blocks before reaching a cheap-looking motel, located conveniently next to a currently empty bank. Cringing as you employ the skills Hydra programmed into you, you manage to swindle $3,000 out of an ATM, promising yourself you'll pay it back someday. You don't know how. 

 The lady at the motel front desk gives you a bit of a look but only nods when you ask for a room, handing you the key in exchange for some of your cash. You meander your way up to the room before collapsing on the bed. You can’t remember when you last felt this exhausted. 

It feels _amazing._  

You sit up and turn on the news out of habit, to see what's happened since you left the riverbank, and you're ridiculously relieved when the headline shows up on screen. 

 **Captain America Miraculously Found Alive On Potomac Shores: Expected to Recover**  

They show footage, grainy stuff, probably from a cell phone, of the ambulances loading him up and taking him away. The man with the wings picks up the shield and climbs in with the stretcher, and they drive away. 

You huff, clicking the power button to turn the television off and flop back on the bed. 

For the first time in seventy years, you sleep by choice. 

 

 


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky does some research and takes a trip back into the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, big big delay, but here's chapter two!
> 
> If you like this so far, please give kudos and comment; I live for comments. I breathe comments. Comments clear my skin and water my crops. (Supplemented by my tears over the continual suffering of Bucky Barnes.) It's getting better, guys.
> 
> Yay!

Forty-eight hours later, after waking in short bursts to check the door and window, you sit on the bed with a stale bagel and consider your options.  

You know you need to get out of the country. The government is going crazy over the Shield-Hydra "scandal" as the news is referring to it, and the internet is flooded with pictures of the strange man with the metal arm. It's a wonder you haven't already been discovered, but you know you can't allow yourself to waste any more time. Rest is a luxury you feel you haven't earned too much of. Not yet. 

You also know that Steve will eventually begin to look for you. You know you can't allow yourself to be found, not yet. 

There is a gap almost unbridgeable between the man Steve seems to think you are and the thing (Man? Machine?) you are now.  You have gone through every sharp memory you can find in the fragmented mind you have, and recall only barked orders of _Soldier. Asset. Weapon._ You recall hard edges and cold, zapping electricity and a heaviness that settled in your bones. _Ready to comply._ Bitter cold, stone, metal. 

Steve called you Bucky, and it was a warm sound, like lights that blur through a camera's lens and apple-flavored tea. Deep somewhere in your mind, things began to puddle; not being put back together, you have already realized, but melted down and shaped into something new. Something free. Something different, and the same. 

You know Steve, whoever he is, will not understand. Not yet. You know this, in your bones.  

 _You're my friend. I'm not going to fight you._  

Few of your victims had ever fought back, but this time was different. 

You growl a little, then tug your cap over your forehead and walk out of the motel, striding down the highway. There's somewhere you need to go, and there's no way in hell you're taking a cab. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

It’s evening again by the time you reach Sherwood Hall library, and the teenage girl at the front desk looks like there's nothing she'd rather do than hop out from behind the desk and out the double doors. She looks up at you from behind shiny square glasses and clears her throat. "Can I help you find something...sir?" You can feel her staring at your raggedy ensemble of clothing (Hydra didn't care much for matching outfits) and you shift uncomfortably. 

"Is there a computer I can use?" You ask, quietly. Your voice is rusty with disuse. 

( _Rusted._ A harsh voice screams in Russian in your mind. You shake it away.) 

The girl nods, and gestures vaguely behind you at a row of desks before grabbing a stack of sticky-backed leaflets that flutter in the staleness of the air-conditioning. "Over there. Here’s the password." She scribbles something very mundane that you could have cracked easily yourself in loopy handwriting, then tears it off and hands it to you. You take it with your right hand, keeping the left one stuffed in your pocket. 

"Thank you," you mutter, as almost an afterthought, already walking away. You're not sure she hears you. 

You sit down and log into the ancient computer, and type in _Steve Rogers._  

There are 44,900,000 search results. 

You sigh heavily, make a quick glance at the front desk, and click on the first article. 

 _Steven Rogers was born in the 1920s in the_[ _Lower East Side_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lower_East_Side) _of_[ _Manhattan_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattan) _,_[ _New York City_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York_City) _, to poor_[ _Irish_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_people) _immigrants, Sarah and Joseph Rogers..._  

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

It occurs to you, as you stand outside the Huntington metro station the next morning, that D.C. is going to be a lot busier now that most of the wreckage from the previous week's events has been sufficiently cleared. In fact, it'll probably be even busier than usual. 

On the bright side, however, it means the crowds are easier for you to blend into. You swipe another Metro card, wincing as if it pains you, and pay your way to the Smithsonian station. There's something you need to see. 

Why the Captain America exhibit is at the Air and Space Museum, you don't really understand, but it fills you with a strange happiness, almost, to walk past the suspended biplanes and rocket ships scattered around the cavernous halls of the massive building. You imagine flying. An image of a car, suspended in the air on a glowing stage, flashes through your mind. You shake it away, left with a sense of unease. 

This feeling only increases when you reach the middle of the Captain America exhibit and come face to face with what appears to be a picture of yourself. 

(Scratch that, it doesn't just increase. Your anxiety s _pikes_.) 

The face in the picture, actually, doesn't look too much different than you feel it does now; the young man wears an apprehensive expression, but also one of indifference; it's cocky, and a little smug, his chin tipped up at the camera as if challenging the photographer. His hair is mussed, and his face is lined. He looks like he has been fighting. 

In your mind, you see flying dirt and roaring flames and the dank ceiling of a dirty lab, and a glowing face with bright blue eyes. You hunch your shoulders and squeeze your eyes shut and combat the flood of images, and you're just about ready to turn and flee the museum when the display with that face – _your face?_ \-- begins to play a recording. Someone speaking. 

"Best friends since childhood, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield..." 

Your eyes fly open. Steve. Steve Rogers. _Born in the 1920's..._  

Steve called you Bucky. On the highway. On the helicarrier. Falling towards the river, that name a ghost on his lips. _Your name?_  

And there, on the screen, eerily, _impossibly,_ is Steve. His hair combed to one side, wearing that uniform, standing with another man. 

And you know it's impossible; and you know it's possible. Because you almost don't recognize it, but that's _you._  

You're smiling, laughing, shaking your head, but it's you. _You._ You've never been surer of anything, even as uncertainty floods your veins, swirls in your lungs, weighs down your shoulders. You are sure of it. 

"Bucky." You say it slowly, quietly, like it's in another language. "My name is Bucky Barnes." 

You come back to yourself as the recording keeps speaking.  

"Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country." 

Yes, you think, you did give your life. To your handlers. To Hydra. Maybe even to death, if only for a while. 

You're taking it back now, you decide.  

"Bucky," you mutter under your breath as you walk towards the exit, and you salute the mural of Steve on your way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AWW, look at my son Bucky Barnes, growing up.
> 
> It's gonna be a long journey to Bucharest. Bear with me.
> 
> Again, please comment/kudos if you like this and want more! <3


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress. (I'm really bad at chapter summaries ok)
> 
> Bucky makes some important decisions and does some thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three!
> 
> I'll be honest, this is kind of a transitional chapter, but it's important. 
> 
> YAY!

CH 3 

You pay your own Metro fare with a temporary card on the way back to Huntington. You don't like guilt. The card is green paper with frayed edges from where you tore it out of the machine. There is a picture on it of a panda from the National Zoo. Washington may have a lot of things to brag about, but it sure takes pride in those pandas. You stick it in the slot of the brown turnstile and watch the gates clunk open, meandering your way down to the mostly empty platform. Karma has decided to be nice to you this week, and every time you have ridden the Metro you have found an empty row to sit in by yourself. No one asks to sit down. 

No one asks about the glove on your hand or the way you probably smell. You decide to shower back at the motel. 

First, though, you need a new shirt. 

The yellow line train stops, like magic, at the Pentagon City Mall station. You walk up the escalator two steps at a time and make a beeline for the first store you see, which looks like some godawful teen's clothing chain. _Forever 21,_ the neon display screams at you, taking up an entire wall. You snort, because here you are, the immortal soldier. Forever 28, that's you. Probably 29, if you count the months you were out of cryo. 30? 

You hunch your shoulders and cringe as you hastily walk into the store. They have, sadly, what appear to be the plainest looking clothes in the mall. 

You shrug past racks of skimpy tops and sassy-looking mannequins and grab a few plain t-shirts and flannels off a rack, making sure they're at least big enough to fit your frame. You don't care if they're any bigger. It doesn't matter. You catch sight of a dark blue canvas jacket, significantly cleaner looking than the one you have on, but decide you'll keep this one. No sense in wasting money. 

You have to make a conscious effort not to bolt with the clothes in hand when a perky sales attendant who doesn't look much older than the girl at the library skips up to you, her brilliantly white sneakers slapping the linoleum tile. 

"Afternoon! Is there, like, anything you need help finding?" 

You avoid eye contact as well as you can without being suspicious. "No. Thank you. I'm fine. Can I pay for these?" 

She smiles. Her name tag reads _Abigail._ "Sure thing! Lemme just grab those for ya and I'll bring 'em right over to the register," and before you can react she's reached over and grabbed the stack of shirts and pants from over your left elbow. Your glove slips down, revealing a sliver of metal at the base of your palm. 

You freeze as she scrutinizes it. 

"Uh, that's -" You don't know why you're attempting to invent excuses, but you're interrupted before you can finish. 

"Impressive cosplay!" Abigail exclaims, already leading you towards the checkout counter. "You headed to AwesomeCon later?" 

You have no idea what any of that meant, but she doesn't recognize you, and that's all that matters, so you nod hastily and dig out the wallet you found empty under the bed in your motel. (You don't know what you did to make your karma so good this week, but you're not complaining.) Abigail rings up the items and bags them more efficiently than you've carried out some missions, then holds out the embarrassingly bright yellow bag as you fork over two hundred dollars. You know in the back of your mind that that's not smart spending, _what would your handlers say-_  

Fuck Hydra. "Keep the change," you say, and actually smile at her before you leave the counter and resist the urge to sprint all the way back down to the Metro platform. 

You feel the Soldier leave you, just a little bit, and you grin like the Cheshire Cat all the way back to Huntington. 

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

You decide it is time to leave.  

Not just leave the motel, though you've been planning to do that anyway; the lady at the front desk may not realize who you are, but you can tell she doesn't like you and the strange hours you keep. (Sleeping for years at a time in a human freezer will do that to a person, but you can't say that to her, so you keep quiet.) 

(You are a person now. Not a thing. You've moved on from that.) 

No, you've decided you need to leave the state. Probably even the U.S., eventually, when you have the money and the whole Hydra incident has died down enough for you to be able to get on a plane without triggering every TSA metal detector in the DMV with your arm. For now, you figure, you can rent a car or get on a bus and get just far enough for you to get a job and a permanent housing situation. You need to be off the S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra/government grid. 

You also need to get off Steve's radar. 

You know he'll come looking for you. He'll come with that stupid shield (honestly, it's literally walking around with a _bullseye_ strapped onto him, couldn't he just carry a gun and some body armor?) and he'll make sad faces with those blue eyes and try to help you. _Come on, Bucky. You can remember. I know you can._  

Yes, you can remember. You will remember. You have already made these promises to yourself. Just not now, and not the way he's thinking. 

You know that Steve isn't stupid. He knows you're not the Bucky from the museum. You probably never will be again. Steve isn't asking for an instant transformation, a best friend straight out of the packaging, bubble-wrapped and saved in the attic from way back in the war.  

But you also know that you were the last thing that Steve was expecting to encounter on that bridge, and however muc he had gotten used to the fact that you were gone, he's back to Square One now. You are once again something that he can _hope for,_ and hope, as you have learned from your years with Hydra, is the most dangerous thing of all. 

You don't understand it the same way they wanted you to, not really, but it still applies. 

To sum it up: Steve is not allowed to find you. Not yet. 

You pack a backpack (it fits everything you currently own) and turn in your key to the front desk, where the woman looks relieved that you're leaving. You smile, and it hurts your cheeks. You relish the feeling.  

___________________________________________________________________________________ 

You can't resist seeing him one last time before you leave. 

Remembering his injuries and their severity, it's not hard for you to figure out which ward he's in. Slipping past busy doctors and harried assistants, you peer inside his room. The bird man (Sam, you remind yourself) is not there.  

You slip inside and sit on the windowsill, and look at Steve.  

He's asleep, but no longer unconscious; his breath echoes in soft puffs in the empty room. There's a horrible swelling bruise patched up on his cheek that you remember giving him. _I'm with you till the end of the line,_ he had said. 

What had he meant, you had wondered at the time, and why had it stopped you? 

You still don't remember it's significance, but you know the meaning behind it, and so with caution you reach out towards the bed, light as a feather, and take his hand in yours. It's... comforting. Strange. You've had your share of human contact over the years, but never too much; and never, strange as it seems, as intimate as this. Steve shifts in his sleep, lets out a little sigh. You squeeze his hand once, then release it back onto the bed. 

"I'm gonna figure this out," you whisper, unlatching the window. 

"I'll come back. I promise." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we are?
> 
> Where will Bucky end up??? WHO KNOWS?? (This is code for: I haven't figured that out yet.)
> 
> Please remember and accept that this WILL be canon compliant, and I KNOW we all didn't like AOU, but since this is Bucky's story, there's a lot to work with. So yay! And after CW, all bets are off... ;) I do plan on writing a sequel.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Finals week is coming up, so be prepared for realllly random updates and sporradic bursts of frustration.
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://darlingbvckyy.tumblr.com/)


End file.
